


Lazarus

by Blueskullcandy



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Police, GTAV AU, Harassment, M/M, Murder, Organized Crime, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Character Death, Torture, but like, dont worry, if you dont like people being hurt and in pain for the fun of others, not serious character death, not the sexual kind, please dont read this, so its cool right, the name kinda gives a hint as to why the death isnt that serious, there is gunna be character death, uhhhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 00:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6682498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueskullcandy/pseuds/Blueskullcandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his first spree of murders, the man known as Red Leader has settled into the role of kingpin of one of the fastest growing and most notorious gangs in the world. With his two loyal members by his side, a shit ton of hired guns, and money from past hits, he has everything he needs to take control of the city of Los Santos.</p><p>However, for every con artist there is an honest man. For every crooked police officer, there is one under cover. And for every murderer, there is one who is incapable of dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Start of the Red Army

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this is my first work in the Eddsworld fandom and I hope you like it. If you want to chat about this fic, hit me up at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gtaeddsworld !

The first body to show up was just like any other to appear behind a seedy bar in South Los Santos: young, blond, and obviously maimed. She was laying unceremoniously in the dumpster out back, her limbs strewn about uncaringly with blood leaking lazily from several wounds on her head. The pale skin on her arms stood out in contrast against the molted greens, purples, and yellows of still forming bruises that lined her wrists and elbow. Her eyes, thankfully, were closed and ringed with black, signifying a broken nose.

The girl, Kaylin Smith, aged 22, had first been discovered by a couple who had exited the bar in search of a more intimate setting. The two separated once noticing the body and called the police. They were questioned and sent on their less than marry way and the body was put in a bag and brought to the morgue. Days later the results arrived.

No finger prints or intruding DNA on the body. Cause of death; raised inter-cranial pressure. Moderate contusions on the wrist, neck, face, and shoulders. Several lacerations on the abdominal region. Largest laceration seems to be a carving of some sort. A line that arcs into two spikes before curving back to return to the line. Possible calling symbol.

No incriminating evidence.

It was chalked up as a tragedy. A shame. A lost cause.

And everyone was okay with that. They were free to continue about their average lives.

And then the next body was discovered.

This one was a young male, found outside a club, whose cause of death was asphyxiation. The same mark was carved into his back.

And then another, a week later with the same mark on the forehead.

And then again.

It became a sort of epidemic. Every week like clockwork, a new body would appear. All the victims were around 21 years old and had been seen in the establishment they were eventually found behind.

Descriptions of who they left with seemed to vary from killing to killing. Some claimed the killer to be around six feet tall, while others said that they were more like a five six. His eyes were a light grey, and then dark brown, almost black, and then an odd shade of rusted red.

The only common factor seemed to be that the killer was male and had a specific hair style that focused on two sharp points in the front of his hair line.

The deaths kept coming, with no hints as to who were behind them. Rather than once a week, the became once every two weeks. And then every four. And then once a month. The public took the tale of an unknown serial killer and ran with it. The papers had a field day with the stories, often making the LSPD out to be bumbling idiots with their heads up their asses. People were advised to stay in at night. A sort cult began to form and follow his stories. They spray painted his symbol in red on almost every open street corner. Some even began committing crimes in his name.

They called him Red Leader and somehow, the name seemed to stick. Or at least, the media picked it up and stamped it onto any and every violent crime that happened in the area.

For a while, this is just how things are. An unknown murderer on the loose, his reckless band of fangirls praising his every move and creating havoc along the way. The general public afraid of shadows, the media in a tizzy, and the police reeling from each death like a personal slap a to the face.

The tirade continued for about half of a year before complete radio silence. No deaths. No assaults. Not even a vandalism could be traced back to Red Leader and his so called followers.

The public sighed with relief too soon, as a month after they seeming disappeared, a man was found hanging from one of the flag posts in front of a bank. The Red Leader symbol carved on his exposed chest and the bank missing all its money.

The Red Leader was always one for dramatic entrances and exits and now he not only had a militia of followers, but an organized one at that.

A Red Army if you will. Or at least that was what was spray painted on the inside of the empty vault of the bank.

The Red Army is a go.


	2. Someone No One Would Miss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I got a crap ton of inspiration for this all of a sudden so here is the next chapter already. And its got Tom in it. So thats a thing thats kinda fun. Yeah.
> 
> If you wanna chat about this AU or eddsworld in general, hit me up at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gtaeddsworld .

Tord knew what he was supposed to be doing. 

He was supposed to be back at base to plan the heist that needed to take place in the next week or so. Funds had started to run low after the last time they had to pay off of the crooked police who tipped them off. Bastards charged exorbitant prices for sub-par work at best. Then he had to think about restocking their growing artillery. Damn, he forgot to mention the food budget. 

Tord dragged a hand down his face and exhaled. If only he could simply assign this task to Patryk or Paul.

The last time he let Patryk plan the heist, they ended up hijacking an ambulance and pretending to be the paramedics responding to a shooting inside a jewelry store that they had orchestrated. It seemed to be going well, until the actual EMTs arrived and outed them to the police. Needless to say, they only got a portion of what they had been hoping to rope in. The chase though was interesting as a very distinguishable stolen ambulance is not exactly the most ideal getaway car. 

Paul's last heist was arguable worse, as it had both started and ended with them jumping from an airplane. Only one of said jumps being planned for. It ended with all three for them strapping themselves very uncomfortably into one parachute and then them landing into the ocean about five miles off the coast of the city. 

From then on, Tord had pretty much sworn off giving them any sort of planning responsibility. They were his right hand men and he could trust them with his life but sometimes he wondered if he was both the brains and the common sense of the operation.

Regardless, he wasn't there to supervise them now as they went out drinking and pool hustling for the night and they weren't here to discourage him from doing what it is he set out to do. Namely, slowly choking the life out of a civilian. 

Managing a crew was like being the owner of a small business. You got where you were because people knew your name and you had connections to keep you afloat. You had those who were actual members of the business and then those who just worked for a pay check. And you had absolutely no time for yourself or anything that you like to do.

Which is how Tord had ended up driving around the back streets of Los Santos, looking for someone easy. 

Patryk and Paul had kept him in check these last few months, only killing when on a job as the more bodies there were, the higher the chances of getting caught. But as time passed and the forming crew needed less attention as they settled into their roles, an itch began to gather under his skin. At first, Tord thought it was just the uneasiness that came from constantly covering one’s own tracks but it continued to grow even past his own usual brand of paranoia. A sense that something was missing. Something he needed.

And then during an outing with one of his hired guns, Eduardo, Tord’s mind supplied, had gone south and they ended in an all-out fire fight. They were pinned down behind a shipment of crates and Tord had been yelling into the radio he kept in his coat pocket for exactly this reason as Eduardo watched the sides and provided covering fire. 

A sharp crack of a sniper shot broke through the sounds of the fight, followed by the muted thump of a body slumping over. Great. Paul had already arrived with back up.  
With both handguns drawn, Tord motioned for Eduardo to follow before turning and exiting their cover while the cracks of sniper fire kept their enemies down in fear of joining the comrade whose head was now rather concave.

They managed to take out the rest of the dealer’s cronies with only a few minor missteps and as they left the bodies behind for the police to find, Tord felt oddly light. It wasn’t until he returned to base that he put two and two together as to why he was so happy after having ended 3 idiots’ lives.

A stumbling, aborted movement in the corner of his eyes caught Tord’s attention and pulled him from his musing. 

A figure moved slowly and ineffectively down the side walk towards where Tord had parked his car for a quick smoke break. The man swayed precariously closer to the car, his voice rising and falling with drunken, slurred syllables and a flask glinted in the lamp light from where it was held by loose fingers. In the dark, he didn’t look like much. Light complexion, overly gelled hair that stuck up wildly, and a simple blue hoodie. He also seemed to be wearing sunglasses at night, based on blackness where eyes would usually be.

Tord sneered as they neared the car. A drunkard and a tool. No one would miss them.

The man sauntered past Tord’s window and the faint tune he had been mumbling reached Tord’s ears, practically making his blood boil. The Norwegian pulled the cigar from where it had been hanging limply out of his mouth and snuffed it on in the glass ashtray he kept on the dashboard. As quietly as possible, he exited the car and opened the trunk that held his emergency stash of weapons. Closing the trunk, Tord adjusted his grip on the wooden bat he had taken out and began to follow who was soon to be the Red Leader's newest victim. 

As he drew close enough, the tune turned into the bumbling lyrics that the man giggled out as he dragged himself through the streets. Tord readied his bat behind the man’s head just as he began to sing louder, his voice cracking and laughing as he belted out, "Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows everything that's wonderful is how I feel when-"

Tord crashed the bat into the side of the man's head with just enough force to knock him out for several hours. The drunkard slumped to the ground with an undignified groan and whimper of pain, blood trickling down the side of his ear and onto his chin and hoodie. 

Tord sighed deeply as he admired his work and soaked in the silence of the night now that the man was down for the count. 

With that settled, Tord grabbed a hold of the man's hood and dragged his unconscious body around towards the back of the car. As he stepped down from the curb, the Norwegian simply pulled the man down with him, admiring the crunch sound his face made as it was mashed into the pavement. With one big hoist, he managed to get the man into the trunk with no issues. Once that was done, Tord placed his weapon of choice down in the boot of the car with his victim before pulling the top shut. 

From the back of the car, Tord grabbed his trusty bottle of hydrogen peroxide and began to pour it on the sidewalk where the confrontation had taken place along with the back of his car to dissolve any blood.

With a spring in his step, the leader of the Red Army returned to his car and started it up, whistling a familiarly annoying song under his breath as he went.


	3. Alone at Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, back by unpopular demand: me. If you're not into lots of blood and stuff, I guess I wouldn't read this. Uhhhh, I guess check the tags if you want to kinda know what this chapter might contain.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and don't be afraid to leave me a comment on anything, even a mistake! It really helps.

It took about three hours for the asshole to wake up.

In that time, Tord found a halfway decent burger joint that was open at two in the morning and had an enjoyable dinner. He was almost certain he scared off several customers as he ate his meal by himself, laughing under his breath whenever he glanced out the window and saw his car. Once he was done, he drove out to his personal warehouse out in the construction district of town and began unloading the cargo from the trunk of his car.

Getting the man from the truck of his car into the ware house was a harder struggle than Tord remembered. He had taken a couple of victims to different locations, killed them and placed the bodies somewhere else but for the last several months, Tord had others to do the heavy lifting for him. Literally and figuratively. 

In the end, Tord just went with the tactic he had used earlier and simply dragged the other man by the hood of his jacket, his face taking the brunt of the abuse as he was shifted toward the towards the older building. 

For a warehouse, the place didn't look too decrepit on the outside. Sure, its paint was fading and the locks and metal that jutted out of the main infrastructure were rusted, but other than that, it was pretty nice. The inside, however was a different story, Tord mused as he slid one of the main doors open and set about the task of getting everything ready before his ‘guest’ woke up.

The inside of the red army safe house/storage facility/murder room smelled of unappealing mix of mildew and bleach. The tiles on the floor were jutting up slightly at the corners and the floor was covered in bits of broken off plaster that had fallen off the ceiling. 

Resolving to tell Patryk to get someone out here to make it more presentable, Tord got down to work.

Tord patted the man down for belongings before restraining him against a chair in the middle of the empty building. It may be cliché, but Tord found he enjoyed seeing the fear on people's faces when they realized they had no idea where they were. That and the ware house actually was pretty convenient to get to and clean blood out of. Most people tended to avoid them as well, making them a good place to hide illegal activities

The man, named Thomas, if his driver’s license was to be believed, had only a few things on his person: a wallet, a silver flask, a checkered wristwatch, and his phone. The only thing abnormal he had on him was a small, thin knife tucked into his belt. Tord inspected the small weapon and laughed under his breath. It looked more like a butter knife than anything that could hurt anyone. Even its handle was laughable, as a pineapple and bowling ball had been carved into the wooden grip.

Tord pushed the toothpick of a knife into his pocket as he heard a soft groan coming from behind him. A small smile pulled itself onto his face.

Show Time.

Tord stood behind his prisoner to stay out of his line of sight and remained silent, wanting to listen to his confused mumblings as he started to climb his way back into consciousness. 

Thomas groaned loudly and began turning his head back and forth as he began to wake up. 

"God damn. Why is it every time I drink alone, I feel like I've been hit by a truck?"

Tord almost laughed as the man began to shift more in his bonds, his hands feeling around the ropes as he became more aware of himself and his surroundings. 

"Shit. What the actual hell."

Thomas seemed to realize the situation he had found himself in as he struggled harder now, his shoulder shaking as he tried to wiggle his arms around in the bonds. The man froze, realizing something before resuming his movements, his arms now shifting with a purpose. He flexed his shoulders and tried to push his elbows away from his back, allowing for more room for his hands to move. 

Tord quirked an eyebrow. That sure was... interesting. He himself had used that trick to get out of a pair of handcuffs when he had been grabbed off the street by another crew who clearly had no idea who they were messing with. Either this guy had experience with getting out of restraints or it was simply beginners luck. 

Tord didn't believe in beginners luck. You either had a skill, or you died. 

The man managed to begin shuffling his hands down towards his back pocket; obviously looking for something he had earlier. 

Deciding to make his presence known, Tord took hold of the struggling man's shoulder and pulled it sharply to the left, his elbow that had been bent awkwardly in his attempts to free himself gave way with a sickening pop. Dislocated. 

Thomas gave a less than spectacular response. Most people screamed or cried when a join was pulled out of socket. This asshole simply pulled in a sharp breath and sighed as though what had just happened was merely an inconvenience.

Not quite getting the fear response he wanted, Tord pulled the tiny silver knife he had stolen from his pocket and stabbed it through the wood of the chair holding Thomas' body in place. 

"Looking for something," the Norwegian sneered, a wicked smile on his lips as he finally addressed his captive face to face. He gave the man a once over, briefly noticing that the blood that had oozed out around his ear had hardened into a crusty mess that ran from his left temple down his chin. His eyes were a soft sort of blue that were sharpened into a look of practiced indifference. One eye was ringed with the dark dusk of a bruise, most likely from when Tord had carelessly smashed his face into the ground after dragging him across the curb towards his car and into the ware house. Glancing down, Tord saw that the arm of the blue hoodie had begun turning a wet and splotchy purple where he had just thrust the knife. 

Oops. Must have nicked him on accident. Oh well. Not like it's going to matter soon enough. 

Thomas' eyes narrowed as the silence between them lingered. 

"So," he started conversationally, his neck craning to look around Tord. "Nice place you got here. Real homey."

A crooked smile crinkled the skin around his eyes as he focused on Tord again. 

"Got any Smirnoff? I'm not nearly drunk enough to deal with this."

Tord mirrored the look on his victim’s face and leaned in closer to the other, his anger growing by the second as the other’s smile remained intact. His own smile expanded as he ripped the knife from where it had been embedded in the arm of the chair and slammed it down into the thigh of the man with the blue hoodie.

This gained a more appropriate response as the man gave a quick yelp of pain, obviously not expecting the hit until it was too late. He gave another sharp intake as he pulled against his restraints in an attempt to curl around the injury, only causing him further pain by disrupting his dislocated elbow.

Tord turned away, allowing Thomas to get his bearings back as the Norwegian pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it with a practiced movement. He took a long drag, held, and then exhaled, his body going lax with the breath leaving his body.

He waited for a few more minutes, taking pulls from the cigar and blowing the smoke towards Thomas as the other continued to lose blood. Once the bloodied man’s eyes began to flicker with the telltale exhaustion of blood loss, Tord moved forward again.

Pulling the cigar from his mouth, Tord returned to his original position behind Thomas. At first, he simply tapped the body of the cigar against the edge of the chair, watching as the ash fell onto Tom’s hand, the skin bubbling as more ash fell.

Then with his right hand, he grabbed hold of the other’s overly gelled hair and jerked his head to the right, while his left hand pressed the smoldering end of the cigar into the skin of Thomas’ neck.

The brit left out a hiss of pain, his face screwing up as he began to shake under the effort of keeping quite. Either that or the pain was beginning to get to him. Tord really didn’t care which one it was at this point.

Tord finally relented the grip he had on Thomas, both Tom’s head and the cigar dropping from his hands and walked back in front of the other to look at his handy work.

The man was bleeding from his nose and mouth, most likely from the rough treatment to and from the car. His head injury had mostly congealed from where it had been hit with the bat, but Tord could still distinctly see where the weapon had impacted. He had purple splotches on both the arm of his hoodie and jeans. Both his hand and neck were flecked with the black, cooling embers of the cigar.

Thomas was shaking, his head bowed and tiled to the right, afraid to move the burns on his neck. 

Perfect.

Tord took a moment to simply breath and look at the beaten person in front of him. 

God he missed the old days sometimes. The days he didn’t have to worry about the finances of running a crew or how many damn planes they had managed to crash or how many times a month he had to pay off the police.

Just… simple fear and chaos and, well, fun.

Tord pulled the knife from Thomas’ leg, earning a loud groan from the bound man.

He then patted the other man’s face rousing him from his revere, the two locking eyes as Tord placed the knife over Thomas’ neck. The brit swallowed, his Adams apple making the knife bob. His eyes were half lidded with exhaustion but held no fear, just a sort of resignation as for what was to come as well as a spark that Tord was unable to place.

It wasn’t fear.

“I’m not getting that vodka, am I?” Thomas hissed out, a smile on his lips and his teeth painted red.

“No,” Tord replied, ripping the knife to the right while staring into the other’s face.

Just before the body slumped forward under its own weight, Tord swore there were no eyes in the socket, just a black void.

He ignored it.

Time to clean his prints off the body and get it in a dumpster where it belonged.

Tord pocketed the knife and turned away.


End file.
